


blossom, blossom

by spicanao



Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: Established Relationship, Flowers, Fluff, Gift Fic, M/M, Post-Game, brief appearances of mercedes and princess mary, flower exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-05-01 23:20:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19187302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spicanao/pseuds/spicanao
Summary: Finding the perfect flower for Alfyn shouldn't be this hard—until it is, and Therion's left to hunt it down himself.





	blossom, blossom

**Author's Note:**

> Happy birthday to the wonderful Atlas (@himbocrowley)! This fic is for you!!

  _"He won’t say anything about it, but Alf likes receiving flowers more than anyone else.”_

 _“Huh. But wasn’t Zeph the one Nina went into a cave to get a flower for_? _I thought_ he’d _be the flower-crazy one._ ”

 _“Yes, well,” Mercedes laughed, smoothing out the apron on her skirt before continuing, tinkling laugh soft and cheery, “_ Someone _made Zeph like flowers in the first place, and it wasn’t me.”_

_-_

In. Out. The sea breeze fills his lungs with the smells of sand and sun. Therion can’t quite remember the last time he’d been to Goldshore—how long had they been on the roads? A full year? Somehow, after everything he’s seen, _done,_ it feels like years since Ellen and Flynn and _Vanessa._

“Why are we here again?” he grumbles, unclasping his mantle to let the cool air brush against his skin. The distinct scent of flowers and pollen in the air make his nose scrunch, but he swipes his wrist over his nostrils to fend off the tickling sensations of a sneeze. Alfyn catches his eye and grins, smile all too-knowing, and the thief scoffs, cheeks warm. “It reeks here.”

“Tis quite strong a smell,” H’aanit agrees, standing farthest back in their group. At her feet, Linde sneezes before turning on her heel and trotting right through the gates to the path they’d arrived by. “Ah, I thinke Linde sholde wait outside.”

Tressa stands on the tips of her toes, twisting around to peer into the distance. A familiar frown crosses her expression, one that Therion knows all too well—from the arch of her brows to the pinched pout on her mouth; whatever this is, it isn’t going according to Tressa’s grand plan at all. Her voice comes out disappointed. “I didn’t think the flowers would be so bad… do you think she’ll be lonely out there?”

“We’ve left Linde to wander around before, Tressa,” Therion says, nonplussed, almost crossing his arms before recalling the gross sweat clinging to his skin. “Now, why are we here again?”

Tressa shoots him a weak glare and darts ahead, twirling to spread her arms wide. “The Flower Festival, dumb nut. And,” she crosses her arms, sighing, “We were _all_ supposed to be here—but Olberic’s still in Wellspring, and Phili’s preparing for that thing with her sister, and Cyrus is _teaching—_ and now Linde is gone too!”

“But we’re still here with you, Tressa,” a smooth, silky voice rises behind him, and Therion rolls his eyes as Primrose slides into place beside him. “Now what’s this about a festival?”

The young merchant opens her mouth to respond, but before any words can come out, a loud squeal cuts through the air. “Alfyn!” Twin-sounding voices screech the man’s name and not a moment later, Alfyn grunts as he’s tackled to the ground. Ellen and Flynn loop their arms around his torso, laughing into his shirt.

 At Therion’s side, Primrose presses a palm against her mouth in stifled laughter. Her eyes shine, brighter than the last time they’d been here—in fact, brighter than he’s seen them since they’d visited Noblecourt again—and she turns to him, still chuckling. “They’ve grown.”

They have. Whatever illness Vanessa had caused did nothing to stop the growth spurt Flynn apparently had in the past year. A couple inches shorter, Ellen had sprung up like a sprout, too. Therion tries hard not to think about how they’re nearly his height—but there is a twinge of satisfaction in knowing they’ve practically surpassed Tressa.

“Guys, guys,” Alfyn laughs, trying to shield his stomach from their spidery touches, “I get it, I get it. I missed you too!”

“It took you forever to come visit,” Ellen grumbles. “But you’re just in time for the festival!”

“What _is_ this festival thou speakest of? I didst not think flowers couldst grow in the coarse sands of the coast.”

“Oh!” They each turn to Tressa. “No, silly, they bring the flowers here. From Atlasdam! It’s—”

“—Customary since the war two hundred years ago. A symbol of peace, if you will.”

 _Oh,_ Therion thinks, not even bothering to look up as a shadow swallows his own. _Of course he’s here._

Primrose laughs, least surprised of them all. “Professor, I take it you’re here by request of the princess?”

Cyrus dons a new wardrobe of navy blue robes, somehow looking even more scholarly than usual. He hums, and it comes out as a rather pleased sound. “Quite acute of you, Primrose! How did you know?”

The dancer shrugs, looking past him and dipping into a quick curtsy. “Princess Mary, how nice to see you again.”

“Lady Azelhart! I had no idea you would be here—how are things faring in Noblecourt?”

Primrose laughs, a fond warmth in her voice. “Well…”

As they speak, Therion slips away from the crowd-gathering ring they’ve formed in the middle of the walkway. Whispers of _travelers,_ of _heroes,_ reach his ears. Stories had spread from southern Orsterra fast—faster than he personally liked. He ducks away from wandering eyes, making himself small and willing himself to be invisible. Crowds are too busy, too suffocating. All he wants is…

The smell of flowers, sickeningly sweet, makes his eyes water, but he simply pulls his mantle close to himself once more and inhales its dusty scent. Alfyn remains on the ground, closer to the ledge overlooking the beach now, his arm propped against his knee and chin leaning into his palm as the twins regale their latest adventures to him. His mouth moves, but Therion can’t quite hear him from where he stands. He shuffles closer, and thankfully the apothecary doesn’t notice the extra pair of ears listening in.

“We’ve been collecting lots and lots of shells. There’s this one, and this one, and—oh!” Ellen rifles through the pockets of her satchel and pulls out a handful of daisies. “We found these, too! Don’t tell Mother, but we’re going to make her a pretty necklace with them!”

Alfyn’s eyes glimmer like stars—or maybe like the water ripples of the ocean, sparkling beneath the sunlight. When he smiles, his nose scrunches ever so slightly and the freckles on his cheeks form constellations of their own. He gives a wink—Therion keeps _telling_ him he doesn’t pull it off well—that he ends up blinking both eyes when he tries—but still the man gives her the most convincing look he can muster. “I swear!” promises Alfyn, holding out his pinky, and the three burst into giggles as they try to link all their fingers at once.

Therion can’t help it—he laughs. As soon as the sound comes out of his mouth, he tries to smother it, but it’s too late; Alfyn’s eyes flicker from the girls to meet his own and he swears if the sun doesn’t roast him, this will set his entire body on fire.

Alfyn quirks a corner of his lips. “Therion! Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

He catches himself before he can stumble over his own words. “You looked busy.”

But that smile lights up the apothecary’s face once more, and the thief knows checkmate when he sees it. “I’m never too busy for you. Did you need something?”

“Yeah, uh.” _Fuck._ “Did you… want to look around?” He scratches the back of his neck. Swallows a shaky breath. _Out with it, Therion._ “At the flowers?”

Alfyn’s usual smile falters ever so slightly and a _different_ look spreads across his face, flustered and proud at the same time. “I’d _love_ to,” he beams, pushing himself to his feet. “Let me just—”

“Oh, Alfyn, are you leaving already?”

The twins peer up at him in disappointment. Flynn stares at the shells in her palms, likely bounty she didn’t get the chance to show the apothecary. When Alfyn visibly flinches at the frown on the girl’s face, Therion smothers the sigh in his throat and snorts, waving his hand in a shooing motion. “Go ahead. It’s not like we’re on a schedule or anything. You know where to find me.”

 “Lurkin’ around the odds and ends of town, no doubt.” Alfyn reaches for him, tucking a loose strand of hair behind Therion’s ear, and the brush of his fingertips makes goosebumps rise on his skin. “Thank you, Therion.”

The thief glances away. _God damned sap._

As the trio makes their way down to the beach, he finds himself staring after them longer than he should. Alfyn's voice drifts as the distance between them widens, but he catches the tail-end of "help me with something" as the man heaves one of the twins into the air. Something in the way Alfyn’s energy shifts when he’s with the kids makes him seem lighter and more relaxed than ever. After Orewell, things had been quiet—and in Clearbrook, although Alfyn looked genuinely happy, there was a heaviness about him that wasn’t bad or alarming, but _different._ As if he’d grasped the full weight of what he wanted to do and could see the path before him clear as day. Resolute. Determined.

Serious as all hells.

The apothecary was— _is—_ overworked. Town by town they’d gone, treating one outbreak after another. At first, only he and Alf stuck together. The others had business to attend to, some at home, wherever that meant, and some taking to the same roads they’d worn down over months.

Tressa’s letter came a month later when Therion was sure Alfyn would work himself to death.

Now, sprawled out on the coarse sand of the beach, the apothecary laughs like he doesn’t have a care in the world. It sends a warm buzz to Therion’s chest, and he huffs out the hint of another laugh.

“He looks better now,” comes a humored voice beside him.

Therion tries not to flinch in surprise as Primrose meets him by the ledge. A part of him scolds himself for losing track of his surroundings—but another tiny, hopeful voice is proud of how comfortable he’s grown to be. Danger lurks on every corner just as it had before, but now he is safer, stronger, and _not alone._

“Won’t you look at the flowers with _me,_ Therion?” the dancer woman teases, motioning towards the distance. Clapping and laughter sound overhead, and the crowd that once filled the streets behind him is nowhere to be found.

“Where did the others go?”

Primrose hums. “Guiding the princess through the festivities. H’aanit’s gone to find Linde.”

Therion arches a brow. “And you?”

“Spending time with you, of course.”

He rolls his eyes, but his mouth twitches. “I’ve got some time on my hands, anyway.”

“Why don’t we pick out some flowers, then?”

He scoffs. “I’m the last person you should go to for flower advice.” When she shoots him a look, he frowns. “What?”

“Why don’t we pick out some flowers,” she starts again, “for _Alfyn?”_

Oh. _Oh._ He tears his eyes away from her and suddenly finds himself incredibly interested in his shoes. Mercedes had told him herself—that Alfyn loved flowers. That Alfyn wasn’t picky about much, but flowers were the easiest way to cheer him up. (The easiest way into his _heart,_ she said.)

Which he doesn’t need help with, necessarily. Because Alfyn already—

“They say flower exchanges symbolize a lasting bond, after all. Or the perfect gift for a loved one.”

“I mean—” He fidgets with his scarf, suddenly warm. “It's not like—”

Primrose grabs his hand, already knowing his answer, and guides him through the walkways of Goldshore. The sounds grow louder as they step deeper into the town. Therion expects one or two florist stands, a fountain decorated with flowers, maybe. What he _doesn’t_ expect is the archway of yellow blossoms above his head, or the children running from one end to the other, tossing flower petals into each other’s faces. If he’d thought the smells were horrible at the entrance of the town, they are tenfold so in the center of the festivities, with reds, purples, oranges, yellows and pinks filling every corner of his vision.

“Is that a—is that a boat made out of flowers?”

Primrose doesn’t bat an eye but releases his hand. “Probably. Here, this way.” She maneuvers through the masses with the grace of her training, never once bumping into elbows or tripping against legs. Therion follows her with ease, keeping his fingers to himself and never letting the bouncing sway of her ponytail fall out of sight. Aside from visitors and residents, dozens of flower venders line the sidewalks, carts and tables pushed flush against the building sides.

“Do you have anything in mind?” Primrose shouts over her shoulder. She spares him a fleeting glance before stopping in front of a young woman’s stand. Therion falls into line with her, winded, giving the sprays and bouquets a once over. “Well?”

If he’s honest, they all look the same. He eyes a small bundle of yellow tulips. Clearing his throat, he gives the vender a slight, awkward smile. “How much are these?” When Primrose leans in close to look, he tightens his smile in embarrassment. “The yellow ones.”

“Ah! Those were grown in Gaborra—they’re quite rare! I’d normally sell them for 12,000, but today’s special. 10,000 leaves!”

 _Damn._ His fingers freeze before they reach his coin pouch and Therion takes a half-step back. 10,000 leaves. He doesn’t even have half as much. Primrose watches him for a moment before smiling pleasantly to the florist. “Thank you. We’re still looking around,” she answers for him.

They move away from the stall, though Therion only makes it three steps before Primrose sidles up to him once more. She doesn’t ask, but he answers anyway: “I don’t have enough.”

Understanding flashes across her face and she slows down. “If you’d like, I could—”

He doesn’t break his pace. “No. It’s fine.”

She has a certain sum to her name nowadays, even if she’s refused to claim lordship over Noblecourt. Regardless, it feels almost wrong to find a gift for Alfyn on borrowed money. On borrowed _anything._

He doesn’t even consider using his talents for a task like this. No, for Alfyn—

_Only the best._

And yellow tulips aren’t enough. Or anything he’s seen here, for that matter. Nothing captures that feeling that whispers _Alfyn, Alfyn, Alfyn._

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he thinks he hears Primrose call his name. But Therion continues onward, twisting and turning, weaving through the swarms of people—and _Gods,_ are there many. Some wear the heavy, draping fabrics trending in the Flatlands, and others don the familiar garb of the Sunlands tribes. He closes his eyes and keeps walking, focusing on the process of left, right, left, right, left—ah.

The crowd shifts around him, and all at once Therion finds himself alone, far from the festivities and free from the constant shuffle of bodies and voices. When he glances over his shoulder, he finds no Primrose, no children, no peddlers or familiar faces. Solitude.

He looks up, right towards a familiar winding path marked by the faded paint on a sign. The Caves of Azure.

Foggy memories surface from the deeps of his mind—of glowing moss, of glittering crystals, of flowers unlike any other he’s seen. _The prettiest flowers in Orsterra,_ he remembers Cyrus lecturing. _They bloom for a single week in the spring._

He rifles through his mind for a descriptor, an image, anything. But not even the few pages he’s read of Alfyn’s medical tome appear to him. He only knows that they exist, and that they must exist within the caves.

_Then so be it._

He doesn’t linger for a moment longer. Feeling for his daggers and the familiar weight of his sword, Therion slips past the warning sign and ambles towards the uneven road. The sun beats harshly against the back of his neck, but he ignores the uncomfortable warmth, squinting to see past the blinding light reflecting off the sea’s surface.

The road to the caves is surprisingly shorter than he remembers it. The beasts remain the same—birdians patrolling the skies, swooping for his head when they think he’s not looking, crabs and tortoises he accidentally mistakes for rocks a few times. Through it all, though, the only sweat he builds is from the heat, and he manages to reach the maw of the cave with little trouble.

A groaning hum sounds out from within. Therion shudders, shaking his head to dispel any traces of nostalgia. The cave smells damp and musty, a scent not unlike the dusty caverns of Wellspring’s Black Market. He pushes _those_ thoughts away and steps inside before he can lose his courage.

The cave’s interior, empty, for the most part, amplifies every tap of his steps against the jagged rocks. Therion resists the urge to call out to hear his voice echo back at him; after Vanessa’s fiasco, he’d heard ruffians visited the area regularly to set up camp. Instead, he clings close to the walls. Drawing the tiny embers of a flame into his palms, he makes his way through the slippery paths.

How had they navigated this cave last time? It had been just four of them, then—Alfyn, Cyrus, Primrose, himself. How had they tailed Vanessa into these depths without getting lost?

A poorly placed foot. Therion swears as he slips, ground rushing upward as he flails for a hold. His back collides into the rounded base of a wet stalagmite, partially submerged in a flowing stream. “Fuck,” he grits out, and the sharp shout reverberates through the cave. He throws an arm over his eyes, counting backwards from ten for the stinging pain in his back to wear off, before pushing himself back to his feet.

Aside from shoulder of his mantle, the rest of his clothes are dry. In his panic, however, he’d snuffed out his flame. Willing the heat to his fingers once more, he winces as the blinding light illuminates the space before him. He takes a deep breath and scans his surroundings once more; again, he hears nothing but the sounds of his own breathing and the faint trickle of water dripping, a rhythmic _drip, drip, drip._ Distantly, another groan wails along the walls—the sea thrashing against rocks.

 _You’re running out of time,_ he reminds himself, pressing onward. _Alfyn’ll check out that back later._

Ignoring any lingering pain, he drags his feet against the floor of the cavern, feeling around for loose pebbles and slick rocks. The deeper within he goes, the less he hears of the waves crashing against the cliffsides outside. Soon enough, the beat of Therion’s stuttered breaths blends into the padding of each footstep and he loses himself to the motions.

A part of him worries about the path back to the town. Without Primrose to brazenly guide him forward, or Alfyn—or even the Professor—to keep him levelheaded, he isn’t quite sure he can find the way without trouble.

Dependence is a strange thing. Or rather—reliance. Knowing they’d had his back.

Therion almost feels his feet slip out beneath him once more but claws at the tip of a stalagmite for support before he can fall. Cool air brushes against his cheeks and he inhales deeply. The smells are different, now—fresher, greener. He pulls himself forward until _there they are._

It isn’t quite the same nook they’d faced Vanessa in, but similar enough that it feels the same. Soft, glowing patches of moss speckle the cavern floor, creeping up the edges of the rocks like vines. Therion suspects it’s the aftereffects of his earlier fall, but the growth seems to pulse, the faint glow illuminating and dimming the small space with each beat of his heart. Therion turns, and without realizing it, spins, searching for that one, that elusive fragment of his botched memory, that _flower—_

_Oh._

It’s a little silly, how easily he spots it, a tiny stem pressed up against a rock in the center of the room. “Found you,” he whispers, stooping low to stare at it. A single blossom, white petals not unlike a large lily’s but luminescent, pulsing in the same glow as the moss.

 _This could sell for a fortune._ It’s gorgeous.

He leans forward, grasping the flower between pinched fingers, and pulls.

The effect is instantaneous; the flower, lovely and ethereal, turns dull and dim, light fading. Therion curses and stares at his palm in horror, hissing, “No, no, no, no—”

“Therion?”

_No._

He turns as a familiar head of tousled hair peeks into view. “Alfyn,” Therion greets, trying to keep his voice even. He looks over himself in a daze; he must be a mess right now, partially soaked, rips and tatters in odd places. Fists clenched around a stupid flower. “Fancy meeting you here.”

Alfyn tosses his axe to the floor, the loud twang making the thief flinch, and doubles over, panting harshly and heavily. “ _Gods,_ Therion,” he starts, voice ragged, “I didn’t think I’d ever have to go huntin’ for things in a cave ever again, but here we are.”

Therion blinks. “What’re you—"

Warm arms surround him and he breathes in _Alfyn—_ breathes in sweat and herbs and spices and home. “Prim came to the twins to tell me you’d disappeared off into the caves without tellin’ anyone. I know I don’t have to _tell_ you it’s dangerous, but I _worry,_ Theri.”

Right. There had been that miscalculation, too.

“I’m fine, just sore from a bad fall. Did you really run all the way up here?”

Alfyn doesn't answer, inspecting the scratches on his arm instead. “What’re you even doin’ out here? She said you just up an’ left without so much as a word.” The taller man releases him, taking a step back to appraise him. Standing before him now in the brightened cavern, Therion sees just how winded the apothecary is, smudges of dirt in his pants where he might have tripped, tangled tufts of hair from running.

Therion glances to his palms. “I was looking for this.”

The flower hangs between them limp and drab. Alfyn squints into the dim light to see it before turning his eyes upward to him again. “A flower?”

He looks away. “For you.”

“Oh, Therion,” he hears, and then laughter. Warmth creeps from his neck to his face and he wants to run. _This was a horrible idea._

“I know it looks dumb _now,_ but it was glowing just a minute ago, and—”

“Hey, could you look at me? I’m not laughin’ at you, I promise.”

Therion pauses and reluctantly meets his eyes. But instead of that same twinkling smile, he comes face-to-face with _red._

_Apples._

On skewers.

Eight of them.

“I know you don’t like the smell of flowers much,” Alfyn explains, smile wry, “so I figured I could do you one better with a bouquet of apples.”

Therion blinks. “Where did you even _pull_ that from?”

Without missing a beat, the apothecary retorts, “My satchel.”

Therion stares, and he stares hard. Alfyn holds the apples to him as if they _are_ a bouquet, eyes hopeful and imploring.

“That… is the shittiest thing I’ve ever seen,” he says. And he laughs—laughs so hard his stomach aches and his knees buckle. Laughs until there are tears in his eyes and Alfyn’s laughing with him, kneeling beside him with a defensive “hey!” on his lips. Therion swipes away his tears and stares down into the flower in his hands once more. “Here,” he offers, holding the pale blossom out to the other man.

Alfyn’s green turns soft and he gingerly reaches out. Even without the glow of the flower to bring light, Therion can see his smile reach his eyes. “I love it,” the apothecary murmurs, and the thief’s heart stutters.

But this isn’t right—not the right shape, the right color. Because Alfyn’s _bright,_ brighter than the sun, bright like fire—and the only flower worthy of him might be a flower of the sun itself. Not this.

“Wait,” he says.

And Alfyn looks away from the flower and back into his eyes. Therion isn’t quite sure _what_ he’s doing, exactly, but he cups his palms together, feeling the familiar whisper of a flame warm his skin, and closes his eyes. He _feels._

“Therion?”

“Keep quiet for a second, would you?”

“Alright, but… please don’t set yourself on fire. Cyrus used up most of the burn salves last time he—”

He laughs, exasperated. “Alfyn.” And it suddenly feels right again, like something blossoming in his chest. Therion unclasps his fingers and holds out his palms. “For you.”

The flames lick his palms in a soothing way; they could never hurt him. Tendrils reach out from every direction, small spade-like shapes opening up like a flower. “A flower,” he supplies, because however similarly he’d managed to mold it by sheer willpower, it takes a little guessing to see it.

Alfyn’s voice comes out an airy breath. “A sunflower.” He opens his mouth and closes it several times. _“Therion.”_

“Take a good look,” he snarks, arms shaking. “I don’t think I can hold it for much longer—”

He doesn’t have to. Alfyn leans forward and the flame blinks into darkness, but Therion can’t be bothered to care—because lips press against his own for the chasteness of a second and everything is stars. Stars and freckles and Alfyn.

They pull away. Tongue-tied, he scrambles for something, _anything_ to say. “Stop overworking yourself,” the thief mumbles, flustered.

“I will.”

“Take more breaks.”

“Like this?”

He can feel Alfyn's humor increase with every teasing remark. He smiles down at him, expectant, and something bubbles within the thief. Rolling his eyes, Therion seizes him by the front of his shirt. “Like this,” he says, and shows him.

Alfyn blinks owlishly at him, stunned, before a bright red blossoms on his cheeks. "I can work with that." And standing here, like this, in the quiet of a cave overlooking a flowering town, Therion thinks he likes the smell of flowers just fine.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thank you for reading! You can find me @chillshroom on tumblr or @nyoomiq on twitter


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